


If I succeed

by TariTheNurse



Category: The Witcher (Netflix)
Genre: Always patching you up, Angst, Attack, Attempt at Ballads, Bad Puns, Denial of Love, Disease, F/M, Feels, Fighting, Heroing, Idiots in Love, Injury, Invasion, Lemon, Love, Lovesickness, Matchmaker Jaskier, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Smut, Monsters, NSFW, Nilfgaard, Pining, Romance, Secrets, Secrets Revealed, Sex, Sexual Undertones, Slow Burn, Smut, Stubborness, Toussaint - Freeform, Travel, Tropes, Vaginal Sex, Vampires, Violence, War, Worry, Wyvern - Freeform, hero - Freeform, matchmaker, mild choking, previous lovers, reader with a Past, roadtrip?, save the day, save the world, village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: You, a crafty villager, find yourself standing on the precipice of what is Geralt of Rivia's world of monsters and evil - yet the past makes turning away an impossible choice.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia / Reader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 65





	1. The wild Things in the Woods

## 1 – The wild Things in the Woods

### … Reader …

Be kind to others; work hard; keep out of trouble. Those were the simple rules you had been raised to follow. The problem is, of course, when following the former inevitable leads to the latter.

You r parents would have been horrified – although your father would have also been proud – however neither of them are  around to tell as they have succumbed to the winter illnesses after the ear with poor harvest just like many other in the poorer areas of the country.  They  ha d brought you to the east, on to the western slopes of the mountains, when you were less than a dozen years old to keep you safe. To keep your secret safe.  You were still too young when they died, however your wits saw you through the first years, and later (w ithout parents to arrange a match ) you  kept enjoy ing freedom as best you c ould while earning a living through your few years of schooling  in the capital and the makeshift knowledge of medicine.  
That life was disrupted a moon or so ago. You had naïvely assumed everything would return to normal once the straggler recovered enough health to move on with his friend, the bard.

Staring at the familiar duo slumped against the wall of your cottage, you realize trouble will be coming for you repeatedly from now on.

“I take it the Fiery Mountains were too hot for you boys?” you sigh as you bend to shove Geralt off of Jaskier.

One grunts, the other sighs in relief, but neither has the strength to answer. _Oh bother…_how are you going to get the bigger of the men dragged indoors?

_One problem at a time._ Both are subjected to a quick examination to find the source of the (mainly but not only) dried blood or identify any broken bones that would force you to be extra careful when moving them. Despite a jagged slash across Jaskier’s abdomen and hip, the young man has gotten away with little else than bruises, and you begin to suspect that he is the one who has brought the Witcher to your door.  A gain. Good thing too. The silver-haired fighter is more dead than alive, and you  decide to move him upon seeing the dirty torso. One by one, the men are rolled onto an old blanket and dragged in to lie on the floor before the fireplace.

Then you set to work.

### … Jaskier …

Warm and snug in the alcove, the dark nightmares seem to evaporate as the bard slowly wakes up to the smell of food. There are flashes of memory nudging the hazy mind, comforting him with the knowledge of a trustworthy person tending to both Geralt and himself. _We made it._ Safe and sound, it is easy to enjoy the moment of rest, watching the flickering light of the fire caress the wooden ceiling or, when he turns the head, the figure of [Y/N] as she works by the kitchen table.

“Take’t slow, Jask,” she orders gently without once turning toward him, “the soup’s almost ready and the mead’s chilling.” Finally she turns around and he can see the grime and worry still marring the kind face. “Once you both’ve regained some strength…” she sighs, “_then_ you can explain what’s happened.”

“Geralt?” The once melodious voice cracks, but it hardly matters at this moment.

“…not dead,” [Y/N] nods towards another alcove next to where Jaskier has been placed, “woke up long enough to curse at everything and nothing while pulling himself in there.”

The smile spreading on Jaskier’s face tugs painfully at his cheek, reminding him of the horrifying injury he had suffered before Geralt fought away the monsters. With shaking hands and the heart in the throat, he tears away the warm covers to see how bad the damage is. _Thank Melitele and __all__ the others!_ A poultice is keeping a pristine strip of bandage to the wound which mars the soft skin but at least the most important area is unscathed.

“Some women like men with scars.” The soft laughter accompanying the comfort is hard to miss.

_Still…Geralt has plenty scars and they all adore him. _”The dream of danger?”

“Something like that.” Coming over, [Y/N] hands a bowl of steaming soup filled with the plunder of her garden. “Eat.”

The piping hot broth does wonder to soul and body, and although Jaskier still is tired he can feel the strength begin to return as he is halfway through the second serving. _We made it…we’re safe._

### … Reader …

You have struggled to lift the fever-wrecked Geralt into a sort of sitting position and he still leans heavily against you now that you balance the bowl of soup in the lap together with the nuggets of bread. _Wake up, White Wolf._ The first attempts prove useless and you refer to harsher methods, rubbing his sternum with your knuckles. A groan precedes the wrinkling of his thick brows. _There! _Finally you can see a sliver of amber beneath the lashes.

“I need you to stay awake, Geralt,” you talk sternly, coaxing his attention towards you, “eat this.”

Spoonful by spoonful, the nourishing food is accepted with only an occasional rumble in his chest as “thank you”. It is as you had expected. No one, even someone less coarse in nature, would manage actual conversation when in this condition. Wounds, breaks, and bruises are plentiful and will take time to heal – the venom, however, is what truly troubles you. The sting of the wyvern must be treated quickly lest it is to kill the unfortunate person within a fortnight. Witchers are admittedly stronger than common folks but not unkillable.

“There,” you whisper to unhearing ears, “rest now.”

He does. Geralt’s head falls to the side, resting against your bosom as sleep reclaims him. _Rest and recover._ Maybe the herbs you added to his soup are already working – maybe it is wishful thinking – but as you linger with the White Wolf tugged against your frantically beating heart you imagine a healthier glow return to the sallow face. Unheeded, your fingers brush through the tangles of his hair not unlike the way he had caressed your own locks a sunny day last time you saw him.

You had escaped to the small clearing an hour away from your cottage. It was your favourite place to go when seeking comfort on days where sorrow over loved ones lost or if you simply needed to calm your mind. This time it was in a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable. Of course, Geralt found you as though he always knew about the place. Not a word was spoken as the kiss goodbye became a desperate attempt of imprinting his heat onto your skin, his strength deep within your core, and his kindness etched into your heart. Bittersweet. Heartbreaking. Magical. As the sun beamed down upon your naked bodies afterwards, the peace had returned. You were able to bid him farewell.


	2. Beautiful together

### ... Reader ...

With the men in the only t w o beds, you  ha d  resorted to curling up in the old rocking chair – the one your father  had gotten  made for his grandmother before your time. It  i s not the most comfortable of sleeping spots (except for a quick nap) so you wake at the slightest sound throughout the night and in the morning when the floorboards creek as Jaskier staggers off  to do what no one can do for him . Your neck hurts, in fact your entire body is stiff  delaying your movements as you unfurl and  head for the kitchen to splash cold water in the face.  _Brrrrrr!_ Finally awake, the morning routine is merely tweaked to accommodate the extra mouths in need of  food .

“Good morning, fair maiden!” Jaskier smiles, a soft tune already on his lips.

_Ugh. _ “Morn'...stir this, please.” 

He does as asked without commenting on your lack of morning cheer, quickly adapting the melody to fit the rhythm of the spoon through the porridge-to-be.

Free to tend to the other chores,  your top priority becomes Geralt. The trembling hand you place on his forehead is proof of the concern for the man.  _Blessed be._ Although still feverish from the effect of the venom, the skin is no longer scalding and only the lightest sheen of sweat adorns his brow. 

Hoisting yourself up on the edge of the alcove it  i s impossible not to admire the features of the rugged Witcher, and you allow golden memories to soothe your nerves. A few strands of white have fallen into his face  and b rushing them away, your palm lingers to cup the handsome head. His lips part to release a sigh, barely audible over the distant crackling from the fireplace and Jaskier's humming. 

Biting the desire back, you  tap the stubbled cheek. “Geralt...it's time to wake up...” Nothing happens, and you figure you might have been too gentle  and grab his shoulder . “Come on. You can have a nap later.” 

But he sleeps on.  _How safe is it to shake a Witcher? _ While c onsidering the conundrum, you lo w er your forehead to his  and inhal e the (thanks to your efforts the previous night) clean scent of the man. Next instant, he  ha s got you in a rib-creaking grip, his teeth bared, and fiery eyes locked on you without truly seeing anything.

“Geralt!” What should have been a shout comes out as a croak.

A second passes. Two. Then the muscular vice unclenches slightly, enough for you to breathe as he takes in your form.

“[Y/N]?” Finally, he lets go.

“What's left of me...” You are still winded yet smile at the recognition. “Jask showed up wi’ you last night – both more dead than alive.”

Amber eyes flicker around the cottage eventually aided by listening. “He's alright.”

“I'm gonna have a scar!” the bard hollers from the kitchen through the fireplace, “the competition is _on_...if you decide to chase skirts ever again.”

You barely catch the last muttering,  making it hard to be sure  what the young man actually did say ... but  Geralt's gruff “hrm” does lend some credibility to your suspicion, though.

### ... Jaskier ...

Breakfast is a cozy affair until the gracious, albeit involuntary, host finally demands to know what has happened. The inquiry brings back the harsh reality once more and reminds Jaskier of the bite from the wound as well as the circumstances under which he got it. He has to swallow back something.

Eyes hard like diamond, she watches the men steadily. “Well?”

“T’was a coincidence,” Jaskier blurts out, “we, that’s to say...Geralt, on the hunt for some bloodsucker so we got -”

“Hrmm.” The tired growl shuts up the bard yet it takes a moment before Geralt begins in his usual brief manner. “Y’know there’ wyverns up there?”

“Of course. In harsh winters they seek into the valleys for prey. The herders hate and fear them equally.”

“Right. Some army or tribe’s...domesticating them.”

Even Jaskier’s attention is fully on the Witcher as past events begin to make sense. There had (according to expert commentary) been too many monsters close together at the pass, for one...though one creature already seems excessive to the less aggressive of the duo. _Domest- but who would? Or COULD? _For a mind mostly occupied with the comfortable indulgences in life, there are too many harrowing implications and they serve to block coherent thinking for the moment.

[Y/N], however, is asking the relevant questions. “Who?”

_I’m sitting with my mouth open._ Jaskier realizes.

“Dunno yet. Too little light ‘nd then th’idiot got in trouble.”

_Idiot? Is he talking ‘bout me? I should close my mouth or object!_ A few croaking sounds escape the bard before he gives up and snaps the mouth shut.

“Any chance it’s an opportunistic group that will stay up there?”

_That’s not how luck works._

“Too many. Too alike.” Geralt leans back, bowl empty and fatigue plaguing his features again. “And y’know there’s nothing up there or eastwards.”

_No. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying. Nope. Nuh-uh. _ Still, even Jaskier knows what the Witcher is getting at. 

Allowing his gaze to follow the soft slopes of the valley, the bard’s heart aches at the idea of this peaceful place becoming the passage for a raiding force of wyvern riders. Would the little village be razed to the ground? The glade,  vineyards, and fields burned as the herds of sheep and cattle killed to stiffle the hunger of the monsters? He does n o t even dare imagine the fate of the inhabitants.

“We’ve gotta warn them...get them outta here while there’s time, but -” [Y/N] bites her lip in hesitation, and Jaskier cannot help but notice how a pair of yellowed eyes zero in on the gesture, “- I doubt many will leave.”

It takes a second longer than normal before Geralt finds his voice. “They must or they’ll die.”

“ Hah.” Humourless. Wry. “If they flee, where will  they go? Y’think there’s help to get?! No.”

“Their choice, their funeral.”


	3. You won't change

###  ... Reader ...

Even with Geralt of Rivia to explain the severity of the situation, and Jaskier to serve as witness, very few of the villagers are willing to abandon their homes at the potential threat.

“You’re the Witcher,” they object, “the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken. Can’t you do something?”

Probably better than the man in question, you understand their reasoning:  this is their home. The only safe place they have. Furthermore,  i f it was j ust a single person leaving  ( maybe to pursue their fate in the capital ) it would not be a problem whereas an entire village on the run would be met with hostility anywhere they were to go. The summer is drawing to an end and with autumn, the cold days will come with rain, sleet, and eventually snow. How would they feed so many? What would happen to them?

“Witcher or not, I’m just one person.”

You know Geralt well enough to see the frustration hidden in the tight draw of the lips. He is not as callous as he pretends, often forfeiting payment by sending a saved person home rather than follow them and claim what was promised. It is only because of Jaskier that they have money to spend on shelter. 

Speaking of the bard, you glimpse a shimmer of his blue doublet in a corner where several young women are gathered, undoubtedly to shower him with attention in the hopes of wooing him – a fate he  wi ll bravely accept.

“Some of you have horses,” you pipe up, focus once more back on the attending villagers, “ride to Beauclair. Warn them!”

B ut already, the audience is turning away, tired of the meddling outsiders and a woman’s views on the problem. Most of them have little respect for the Ducal Guard who is supposed to  protect the borders and roads, finding that the men sporting the Toussaint colours rarely bother about the well being of the common folk. 

“Don’t waste your breath on them, [Y/N].” Geralt’s heavy hand squeezes your shoulder softly, sending shivers racing. “They’ll talk, then they’ll come to offer me money to sort it. They _all_ do.”

H e is tired, the venom still potent in his blood though the fever has diminished somewhat. With only a grunt as thanks, he takes the tankard of ale offered by a pretty blonde before reclaiming his seat with a sigh. Though the wench's job is done, she hovers nearby with a hungry look in her eyes that sends your skin crawling and your brain reeling for something to distract the  s well of unwelcome emotions.

“What if they do? You’re still just one man...and you’re recovering.”

He has the gall to roll his eyes. “At least I can get proof, seeing the carcass of a monster sends most running.”

“So?” Anger is rising rapidly in your chest even if this is not the time nor the place to let it out. “We’ve seen wyverns before...know they’re th-”

“Who’s talking about the wyverns?” Half the sentence is spoken into the wooden tankard, only loud enough for you to hear. “There’s...something else.”

Oh, the anger is gone immediately all right, replaced by a new, creeping unrest.  _The people capturing the wyverns...aren’t people?_

Looking around the place, you see familiar faces  who now are in danger . Friends who have helped you, whose kids you  ha ve taught or famil y members you  ha ve tended to during illness or labour. When you and your parents first arrived, it took a while before you were no longer treated as the strange city-girl but once people did accept you...you have never felt alone since. You see the smith and his apprentice by the bar, and over by the window is Audette (seamstress who worked with your mother before eventually taking over) with her  gossiping friends, two tables are filled with sons and daughters strong enough to work  at the biggest vineyard in the valley. You could go on, naming each and every single person. Then again, there’s less than hundred  in the village. 

T here are more than usual at the small inn. Undoubtedly, the rumour of the Witcher being in attendance has spread like wildfire thanks to Jaskier’s strumming on the walk here.  _Jaskier._ He,  however, i s nowhere to be found. Where he was, some of the hopeful women  are  sitting with disappointed pouts.  _He’ll be back for breakfast._

You turn back to continue the conversation only to find the annoying barmaid nearly crawling onto  the White Wolf’s lap  without any complaints from him . Biting back curses, it  i s all you manage to hiss at Geralt to deal with the villagers’ threat as he sees fit before you march out.

Pebbles crunch under your boots. A newly waning moon bathes the bumpy road and the path leading off towards your cottage in a blueish glow, the inky shadows beneath any obstacle the better how late the hour is. _Gonna go home, clean up, go to sleep. In my OWN bed!_ Though the air is cool and soothing, it is unable to dull the rage boiling your blood. An inner dialog plays in your head with alternating reasons for and against your reaction: you have no claim; the Witcher can make (or choose) his own bed and lie in it, yes sir; typical men! 

On and on, your mind protests, until a dry crack snaps you back to the present. Nothing is in sight, though it  i s uncannily difficult to ascertain whether something is hiding in the underbrush of the glade to your right. If only you had paused to  bring and  light the little lantern – a lantern which is standing by the seat Geralt had claimed – then you could have seen more. Even such a little light would be useful for you in other ways, keeping you safer than most would think. All you have is the  glow of the moon so you wait and listen. As no other sounds disturb the silence, you deem it wiser to continue home. Hurrying slightly.

Once indoors, a shaky breath wriggles past teeth worrying into the bottom lip.  _Silly me._ It was probably just a critter too focused on you to watch its step.

You sense it rather than hear it, a presence nearing from behind like a thunderstorm crawling over the mountains. There  i s barely time to reach towards your father’s old walking staff, less so to turn and raise it before your wrists are pinned on either side  of your head  against the closed door and the Witcher is looming over you with his broad shoulders. At least he does n o t have to tell you to drop the staff  with a clatter  (what good would it do, anyway?). He is so close! The formidable chest rising as he attempts to regain his breath.  _Did he run here?_ Brows are knitted as those magical eyes sweep over your form once before scrutinizing every detail of your face.  _I’m pissed at him,_ yet the reminder does little else than school your features. Within this proximity, it  i s possible to smell the musk and the bitterness from the venom-laced sweat –  the last inkling of honeyed soap would be unnoticeable for anyone but those who knew of it.  The heat.  _By the Prophet!_ The heat emanating from the man can only be compared to the smith’s furnace...or the sinful need in your core.

“I believe we were talking, [Y/N].”

“Your attention was elsewhere so I decided we were done,” you bite back.

Tearing yourself free (or rather: he lets you free), you slide past him to reclaim your own alcove. Seeing as Jaskier undoubtedly will be gone all night, it makes sense for Geralt to sleep there instead...and if not, then the two guys will have to bunk up.

“[Y/N]...” His voice is softer now.

Yours is not. “What?”

There  i s no answer, merely a thud and a slight quiver in the floorboards prompting you to whip around. Geralt lies in a heap on the floor.  _Fuck._ Undoubtedly, his rush to reach home before you has pumped the venom through his body at a quicker pace than even he can withstand, pushing his recovery back and draining what little energy he still had left.

You act swiftly, finding the last of the old vials of antidote as well as one of the new ones you have prepared during the day – they aught to settle before administration, but you might not have a choice now. Then (less swiftly), you drag blankets onto the floor  near the fireplace  and roll the meat mountain onto them before swathing him almost like a child and dragging his shoulders and head onto your lap.  Embers are still crackling, casting a red glow onto the chiselled face to soften the edges.

“Come on,” you coo, knowing full well that he cannot hear you, “open your mouth.”

It  i s relatively simple to gain access to pour the remedy into him. Pushing the jaw up, you pinch his nose shut and pray that his body will react accordingly. Under the black shirt and leather, his chest stutters in protest for a moment longer than you like.  _Come now. _ Miraculously, you hear him swallow, clearing the liquid away to free the airways, gasping hungrily but never once regaining consciousness.

He is handsome, the White Wolf, though few see past the fierce facade to discover the gentle strokes in his appearance. As the dim glow flickers and sends the shadows dancing and jumping, you find yourself staring at the femininely long lashes, and the perfect curve of his lips that you once had the joy of claiming.

But the weight of the man is impressive too, quickly robbing any feeling from your legs. Pushing Geralt, with little remorse as to the harshness, you regain freedom and rub your limbs to get life back into them.  _What to do?_ Peeling off boots and, well, anything but his breeches is done quickly despite the dead weight because years of dealing with injured and sick people have proved to be a one-person-task most of the time.  _So far, so good, _ idle fingers ghost through the hairs on his chest. 

_And now..._ t hough he probably would n o t care, you do n o t like the idea of leaving him on the floor and so retort once more to dragging him towards the nearest  bed – you own. Once at there, a cold cloth wakes him up enough to get him onto his feet and you are able to pull him up after crawling into the alcove first, reaching over and pulling him by the waist of his breeches. 

By the time Geralt passes out again, he  i s sprawled diagonally across the bed with you pinned under his arm. Trying to move only results in hi m subconscious ly dragging you into a tight embrace with your back against his chest.  _Fuck!_


	4. Burning Star

###  ... Jaskier ...

_ What a glorious day! _ Somehow, the world is kinder, brighter, gentler in all manner of ways, and the bard’s steps have a re-found spring in them as he scales the slope towards the familiar cottage. From a distance, everything seems tranquil up there too, although the lack of smoke rising from the chimney is unsettling for a man who might have had to leave a bit too sudden to enjoy breakfast.  _ On the other hand... _

Jaskier manages to slip through the door without it creaking. Pausing to remove the boots, he can hear the slow and heavy breathing of Geralt sleeping mixed with a rhythmic tapping which he can no t place.  The sound does not rise from the fireplace, though ashes still might shield a few embers; neither windows nor shudders for the alcoves are moving and -

“Pffrt!” the bard barely manages to contain a sputtering giggle.

Head propped up by her hand, [Y/N] lies fully clothed (save for the clogs which are haphazardly discarded on the floor) in her bed pinned under most of the immovable form of Geralt. She is fuming, and it is her fingers tapping on the edge of the alcove that create the sound.

“About fucking time, bard,” she snarls though keeping her voice subdued.

Nearing the woman, Jaskier ensures to stay out of reach. “Why? Lest memory fails me, you’re more than capable of handling him on your own?” As entertaining as it is to tease their host, he dares not carry on after the withering look she deigns him.

Soon enough, they succeed in rolling the seemingly unconscious Witcher aside, freeing [Y/N]. Without pausing, she runs out of the house and it takes quite a while before she returns with a relieved smile in place of the consternated frown she had sported.

Jaskier’s curiosity has been piqued. “What happened?”

### ... Reader ...

You swiftly relay how Geralt’s conditioned had worsened, leaving out a few details. _No reason to admit I was jealous._ Nor does it serve any purpose to elaborate on the growing bulge against your buttocks as the sun rose and the unaware Witcher pressed against you – all factors contributing to a heat spreading through your body.

“I allowed him outta bed too soon...not gonna make _that_ mistake again.”

The kindling crackles, hungry for the bigger pieces of wood you carefully arrange to get a cooking fire blazing. Next task is to get water from the spring for the breakfast, though you are in no mood to serve anything more elaborate than bread, cheese and sausage. And jam, you decide when spotting the preserve of rose hep still left from last season.

Tempting Jaskier is the simplest way of getting his help, and so you do not hold back on the veiled promises to get the lad moving, freeing some of your attention to check on the man who kept you in bed (without fun).

...

One good thing does happen that day: Roach, who has been absent all this time, comes trotting as you tend to the berry bushes. The poor animal is filthy, the saddle crooked which makes the items still attached collide with her legs, and the reins are dragging along the ground with what looks like the undergrowth of half a forest. At least she does not appear starved, just happy for the kindness you pay her in form of scratches and adorations.

“Smart girl,” you coo, “figured out where your boys are, huh?”

Freeing the mare of any inconveniences, you half expect her to take to rolling (to scratch the inevitable itch after days in full get-up plus flora) instead she nudges you questioningly, a muted whinny posing a question the creature has no words to formulate.

“Jaskier’s in town to play for the lonely ladies...” you hesitate momentarily before adding, “the idiot’s still recovering.”

“S’that how you talk ‘bout all guests?”

The hoarse rumble startles you and you turn so rapidly Roach spooks, dancing a few feet aside before calming once more. The devotion between man and animal is clear as each of them surveys the  condition of the other. Clearly the mare is less satisfied, subjecting her owner to several soft-lipped caresses and nudges until it begins to annoy him.

The swat is gentle and the tone kind. “Enough, donkey! Go roll in the grass or something.”

She does (after a kindhearted headbutt), leaving you alone with Geralt and the recollection of one of the most uncomfortable night s in your life.  Goodness knows there  i s plenty you want to say to him...just not right now as he stands there in breeches and a shirt trying to hide his figure – something the thin cotton fails at.

“You may wash and such but I expect you back in bed right away,” you snap at him.

Turning back to the potager, the prickle along the spine  notifie s that Geralt stays as if planted in the earth himself.  Silent. Most likely brooding. In fact, merely a minor feat of imagination is required to depict him standing there with arms crossed  over his chest and frowning brows lowered far enough to obscure the amber eyes together with the wayward strand of silver hair.  _ Stubborn ass. _ The only movement is the torso’s expanding against the strained fabric of the shirt, or maybe a slight shift of weight from one leg to another.

“If you pass out again,” you warn him without turning his way, “I’ll let you lie as you fall.”

“[Y/N]...”

“Witcher.” There is a finality in your tone, and perhaps he finally accepts defeat because Geralt’s nowhere to be seen when you sneak a peek over your shoulder soon after.


	5. Hate to say I told you so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I know noone's really reading it here on AO3, but just gonna post it anyways as a sort of backup.

### ... Geralt ...

The life as  a  Witcher has taught Geralt to trust his guts and accept the likelihood of any worst case scenario, particularly if it prevents convoluted schemes. All in all, he reasons, people are simple. Some are content with happiness while most want influence – be it through wealth, knowledge, or power – and can be appeased if  convinced they have achieved the epitome of this. Few are truly evil  or good ; everyone is predictable. 

_ With one exception. _

Geralt would be loathe to admit how weak he feels as he clambers back into the alcove. His legs are shaking, cold-sweat is tickling along the spine and beading on his forehead already...but it is none of these nuisances he pays attention to as he sinks into the pillow, haphazardly dragging the cover over his body. There is a faint scent of honey, of spruce, and fresh grass. There is a memory of the sun beaming onto sweat slicked bodies in a field of wildflowers while the mountain lark sings. Mostly, though, there is an ache in the Witcher’s chest similar to the one he felt when he was a boy and was missing his home. _No, more than that._ No sudden element is causing the dull emptiness but rather something within him. He may have shrugged it off to be an effect of the venom if it had not been a sentiment nagging the edges of his consciousness for weeks.

...

Rushed voices  reach es the White Wolf, dragging him from the depths of sleep without making sense at first while he orients himself.

The sun must be low in the sky because the shadows are long and the light is soft with the colours of peaches. One of the two windows in the cottage has been opened to allow the gentle breeze a final chance of clearing the air and Geralt can see Roach as a silhouette against the hazy mountains beyond the valley.

“You heard him yourself, Ruben.”

The familiarity of the woman’s voice functions like a lantern in the night, drawing the focus of the waking mind towards the present.  _ She sounds annoyed. _

“Do you speak for him?”

There  i s a snort which confirms the theory of her mood. “I most certainly do not!” Someone else interjects a mumbling comment, too faint to make out although it seems to soothe [Y/N]. “Fine. W ait here.”

Naturally, Geralt has already swung his legs over the edge of the bed and is looking for his boots when the woman enters. Wordlessly, she picks up the footwear which she (perhaps logically?) had placed by the door and hands them to him before stepping back to assess his motions. Keen eyes sweep over him, noting the slight tremor of hands and the generally dishevelled appearance. Still she makes no attempt to meddle.

Only once he is ambling towards the door does she speak, “Y’heard them?”

“They wanna pay me to solve the problem.” He knows she nods from the silence. “No one leaves?”

“One of the vineyard boys’s insisting on riding to Beauclair.”

“He better hurry,” Geralt sighs, but he goes to talk with the few villagers who have come to bargain.

...

Listening in the silence of the night, the sounds of the sleeping mountain, valley, and Jaskier  snoring next to him is not what keep s the Witcher awake.  Time and again, he has tried to collect his thoughts on the looming task. 

_ Idiot. _ The unkind word is laced with a certain adoration as it retains to Jaskier who has refused to sit this quest out and remain in relative safety in the village. The young man insists it  i s of utmost necessity that he accompanies to witness any heroic deed, thus ensuring odes or ballads of highest accuracy – an excuse he vindictively upholds despite Geralt pointing out the artistic freedom of previous songs. 

Yet...it does soothe the Witcher to know that someone, even a person as inept as the bard, will be able to care for Roach should worst come worst.  They can then return to [Y/N] and warn her and the rest of the villagers.

_ [ Y/N]. _ He can see her for his inner eye, skin glowing in the heat of the setting sun, and eyes full of lively challenge.

As if summoned by his stray thought, he hears her slip from her alcove. Geralt keeps his eyes closed but hears the light footfall bring her to the door where a rustle tattle tales of a shawl being grabbed and wrapped around unyielding shoulders. The latch whines enough for Jaskier to grunt in his sleep...then she slips out of the door.

_ I’m not spying, _ the silver haired man informs himself as he too slips from under the warm covers. At the very least, he knows better than to follow her this time, choosing instead to wait in the shadows by the window. Immobile, he may as well have been carved from the very rock of the mountains. 

Waiting. Watching.

Clouds sail swiftly past the waning moon, inadvertently plunging the interior of the little home in complete darkness though the stars and thin air lends an ethereal light to the  slopes and valley below.

### ... Jaskier ...

_ T _ _ he summer was sweeter than honeyed wine, _

_yet love turned to heartache with passing of time._

_ N _ _ ow that you see her _

_\- tangible, clearer -_

_the longing for summer’s perfection returning_

_ you dare not  _ _ give in to the rekindled yearning _

Although the bard knows his work is cut out for him, he cannot help but pride himself of being the one to witness, and proclaim the (if only due to an artistic spin) epic ballad of the Witcher and his soulmate.

_ If only they would DO something about it! _ It  i s clear as day that the two are tiptoeing around each other and the memories of ( _ ahem _ ) shared experiences which, obviously, Jaskier has no idea about because no one could guess what Geralt and [Y/N] were doing out in a secluded field that could lead to a particular disarray and soft intimacy reserved between just the two of them.  _ Noooooooo one. _

And there it is. Lying in the darkness of the alcove, listening to the subdued sighs of longing from his friend standing by the window, Jaskier promises himself and any greater forces of the worlds to aid the lovers. Not blatantly, of course. But slight nudges, hints, maybe giving them a few opportune moments with each other.  _ I’ll give them space. Make myself scarce by...walking the horse! Or...getting firewood. Yes! _

For the second night in a row, the bard falls asleep with a smile on his lips.


	6. Grow or pay

### ... Geralt ...

The two men wake at the crack of dawn to the scent of porridge and sweet tea, and Jaskier clambers across the Witcher’s still sore body to get to the morning meal though he dutifully refrains from touching any of the indulgences – at least their host has some influence on the bard. Geralt is differently slow in his movements as he follows suit.

“How’re you feeling?” [Y/N] asks as she enters from the kitchen with a loaf of bread cut in perfectly equal slicing.

_Physically better. _“Hrm...”

A kind of silence the Witcher has learned to dislike fills the room, allowing the growl from Jaskier’s stomach to sound clear though with no effect. Their host is waiting for a more fulfilling answer. _Fever’s gone,_ would be a possible answer, he ponders. _A slight ache, but I’ve had worse._ Yet it is only partially true as the hollow longing is expanding the cavity in his chest whenever [Y/N] talks. Or moves. Or...is.

“The...venom’s no longer a problem,” is the closest he can get.

“Good. Then eat.”

She joins them, and Jaskier happily chases the awkward silence away with boisterous praises of the meal.

...

“I see what you’re doing.” Geralt notices the twitch in [Y/N]’s arms at the nearness of his voice and the light grasp on her shoulder.

More food is wrapped and divided into the three satchels. “Your eyes work, still.”

The Witcher could swear that there is a muffled snicker from outside the open window and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with Jaskier later.

Instead, he turns the vexing woman by the elbow only to be met by a steely glare. “What makes you think you’re gonna need one?”

“Not gonna share with you.”

Shrugging free of his lose grasp, she busies herself with the packing and pointedly ignores the irked hum escaping the broad man. As satisfying as it is to chastise the bard, something placates the White Wolf this time – or maybe he has accepted that it will cause him less grief to argue with [Y/N].

“We won’t slow down for you,” he mumbles halfheartedly before grabbing what few possessions he has and heads out to wrangle Roach in.

### ... Reader ...

_ You know you won’t have to, ass.  _ As if prompted by the thought, your gaze travels to the receding figure which sadly holds wonders  equal to those of  his front ,  and there  i s little comfort in the knowledge that everyone with eyes would admire such a view. 

...

N othing is out of place once the last few things are packed and you have changed from bare feet and skirt to boots and  leather  trousers.  Still, it  i s with anxiousness in your chest that you close bar your little home, hide the (mostly symbolic) key to the door under the thatching by the window. 

_ Ready. _

At least Jaskier and Roach seem to appreciate the notion of your company, the sweet mare coming over to nudge your shoulder as though waiting for you to lead – a gesture the owner hardly misses judging by the rolling eyes you glimpse before he turns and sets a brisk pace towards the mountains.

You have looked at the jagged range for years, knowing that travelling into the thinner air  and the monsters there are  dangerous beyond reason.  _ I’m going there now. _ Yes, your parents would not recognize their own daughter:  the inkling of a plan would keep any sane person safely at home. But how long will the cottage, the village, get to remain in peace if what Geralt tells is true? As opposed to the other inhabitants of the small community, you trust the Witcher’s words and know that his success when confronting the looming thread is vital for the protection of your home. Perhaps the entire entire kingdom of Nilfheim. 

I t is easy to find logical arguments to follow the travelling duo (trio, if counting Roach). They will require your aptitude in healing, by draughts or bandages. Your luggage is weighed down by near all of the remaining contents from your stores as well as the simple tools used for the tr ade.

T he pace is comfortable, perfect for hours on the narrow road until the inclination becomes steeper. Above, the blue sky sports one to two fluffy clouds as contrast to the black silhouette of an eagle soaring the updrafts with elegance. Perhaps the serenity should invoke a certain  despondency...however, it is the thrill of breaking free of 

“Well, _I_ for one find this arrangement _per_fect,” Jaskier offers with a grin and a gleam in his eyes. His fingers are already caressing his lute. “This will make for quite a tale! Have you heard my latest success?”

“You did perform it at the inn.”

The bard’s face lights up with a broad smile which transforms the gush of reminiscing babbling into something adorable rather than bragging  and you allow him to chatter on, happy for the distraction his words bring. Well...at least until the tale spins into the sweet memories of his kind of conquests his success has brought. Strumming a gentle melody, he worships the physicality enjoyed in soft candlelight: carefully describing the movement of lips over heated skin; beckoning images  of hands caressing curves and breasts; instilling the rhythm of hitched breathing with in you even as you  a re walking there  on the narrow mountain road. 

Fixing your gaze ahead, it is nothing but a frantic hope to block out Jaskier’s words and undo the effect  they are having on you.  _ Fuck.  _ Right there, a handful of paces ahead, walks Geralt. Suddenly, it is his hands you envision as the bard  brings suppressed longings to life. The beating of the white-haired man’s pulse under your fingertips as his hips rocked into you and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of hips and thighs.

_ Not going there! Nope! Nuh-uh! _ With a mental force worth any ounce of pride, you manage to push the thoughts from you mind. Head down, eyes scrutinizing the bumpy path for insects or pretty stones –  anything to avoid paying attention to Jaskier’s adoring soliloquy.

###  ... Jaskier ...

No blow is too low if the goal is to  make those two fools see each other ! Stubborn, blind, denying idiots.  _ I’ll make them admit their feelings. They’re meant to be! _


	7. Everything glows

### ... Reader ...

The end of the second day brings you to the treeline, coming to a halt by the last cluster of fir and spruce. There you build a campfire while the men se to their tasks. High above your heads, the cliffs and snow are painted pink and purple by the setting sun while the valley below has been cast in shadows – only the scattered pinhole dots of light indicate where your home is. The recollection of Beauclair’s grandeur has always been with you (albeit faded by time into a mythical dimension of its own), dwarfing the village your parents had brought you to, and from this distance the tiny cluster of light seems all too easy to snuff out.

With nightfall, you find yourself drawn to an outcrop of cliffs a short way from the campsite where the flickering light of the fire does not reach to compete with the glow from the stars. Still, it is the minuscule golden dots below that have caught your gaze as you sit there with a leg dangling over the edge.

“It’s not too late for you to turn back, y’know.”

Geralt’s voice startles you. The man might be big as a bull but can move as silent as a cat. Half a mind to get up and leave, you force yourself to stay as he sits by your left side. His warmth is pleasant in the chill of the thinning air, scent intoxicating.

“You’re not the only stubborn idiot ‘round.”

The responding “hm” almost sounds like a chuckle. Deep. Rumbling. A landslide that both stirs and calms.

The Witcher refrains from asking unnecessary questions, allowing the silence to reign comfortably for once, only to reveal a different layer of sounds: somewhere, a stream gurgles happily; mice or other critters rustle through the tufts of wiry grasses; your heart beats frantically against your ribs. _Don’t hear it...please don’t._

“So...” the White Wolf begins dangerously slow, “will you find a new way t’avoid me or can we finish the talk from th’inn?”

_Would it be too much to ask for a wyvern to come swoop me away? _ “ Fine. Talk.” 

O f course, he hesitates as if to test  you . “I said there was...is...another force  _seemingly_ taming the wyverns?”  A  non-committal grunt is all Geralt gets as answer. “They’re not human...not entirely, at least.”

T here is a slight crack in your neck as you swivel to face the broad man. If you  di d not know better, you would  say he sound s ... worried... which of course cannot be true because although a Witcher is killable this particular one has a stubbornness that would not allow something that mundane to happen thus negating the reason for concern.  _Close calls, sure, not the real thing._

“What’re they?” It is not as though you want the answer.

“Maybe vampiric...not sure.”

Giving him a shove with your shoulder (barely moving him at all), you refuse to let the chance slip away. “Oooh, the great White Wolf’s short of an answer? A monster you’ve never heard of? Or are you unable t-”

The lined up taunts are abruptly stopped by a calloused hand clamping over your mouth and a wall of a body pressing into yours. Though his grip is unyielding, comparatively tiny hands tugging uselessly at his strong wrist, he is surprisingly gentle too.

“Hrm?!” Emotions tangle in your chest and you are grateful for the muted cover of the night’s darkness.

“Shh.” Geralt’s attention is not on you, instead his eyes are scanning the dark at a point somewhere deeper between the trees and you feel your own ears strain for the smallest sound out of place.

The stream gurgles, the wind whispers in crevasses and treetops...but none of the nocturnal animals can be heard anymore. _There._ A click and grating of stone against stone breaks the spell, spurring you to draw the dagger hanging at your hip. A light tap with the blade against the Witcher’s arm is enough for him to release you. 

A muted conversation passes between the two of you and ends with a roll of amber eyes before Geralt pulls his own dagger in lieu of the sword left back at the camp –  and even without the greater weapon this man is deadly. Graceful and dangerous, he slips to his feet, ready to take on anything  whereas your own limbs feel clumsy and slow in comparison. 

A growl precedes the beast stepping out from the dense darkness under the trees. Rough fur catches the silvery light of the stars in scattered streaks, making it hard to gauge the size until you spot the position of its eyes. Dark as smouldering coal, they are much further from the ground than you care for.

### ... Geralt ...

_Go,_ he urges the wolf silently, knowing full well this creature has plenty other options for a meal. It is a gorgeous beast full of power and cunning.  _Go. Leave her._ Geralt vocalizes the forbidden thought deep within his chest in form of a growl of his own. Head down, knees bend, arms slightly elevated, and a fist wrapped securely around his long knife – everything in his stance is prepared for a fight.

The wolf hesitates even though the threatening sound from its chest does not halt while paws take a few testing steps  as if dancing on the invisible line between defence and attack. Predatory eyes  flicker to its preferred target, calculating the risk of skirting the Witcher to reach the weaker of the two humans. 

A cold weight is settling in Geralt’s gut.  _This is why she shouldn’t’ve come._ Not due to risk of wolf attacks specifically but due to any danger [Y/N] might be exposed to. Although he has gotten used to worry ing for and car ing about Jaskier, the bumbling fool...this is different somehow. It should not be, and for that reason he will not admit it even to himself. In a last attempt to send the wolf running,  Geralt bares his teeth in a snarl.

There is a shift in the atmosphere the second before the beast charges, fast and low to skirt around the man before it leaps towards the smaller target.  Two daggers  flash in the night, wielded by people who instinctively move as though it is an age old dance they always have been engaged in, and yes, one is a tad clumsier –  the thrust and drag of steel through flesh less demanding – but the wolf never stands a chance. 

[Y/N] is impossibly close, wrapped in an arm the Witcher does not recall drawing her in with. In the chill of the air, the touch of skin is burning.  S calding.  B egging for his hand to push away the clothes and fan out across the exp a nse of her belly. They are both breathing hard unaware that the inhales and exhales have synchronized. 

“You...” Her plump lips and upturned gaze distracts him and he has to look away if he wants to continue. “Don’t do’t again.” Oh, he knows it is the wrong thing to say, inwardly wincing even before she pushes away and angrily demands an explanation he cannot give.

Relenting somewhat at his uncomfortable silence, bends to clean the knife in the fur of the animal, muttering as if to herself, “I get it...’s your task to protect.”

“Hm.” His eyes are considering the pelt.

“So...” She straightens and regains his full attention whether he wants it or not. “Let’s make a deal...when you don’t need my medicines you can begin to teach me how to defend myself better.” [Y/N] looks at him expectantly despite the lack of invitation for negotiation in her voice and Geralt finds himself agreeing to the plan.

_What am I becoming, _he wonders as he watches her head back to camp. Admittedly, there is nothing bad to be said about a woman knowing how to fight, however, when it is the idea of being closer to [Y/N] that urges the Witcher to train her then he should perhaps reconsider.


	8. Cloudy Hours

### ... Jaskier ...

_E__verything is wrong._ Uncomfortable. Chilly, hostile, and downright exasperating.

Leaning against Roach for a bit of warmth (badly needed even though it is noon), the bard is running out of subtle ways to work romance into the lives of the (human) travel companions and with each day the group is getting closer to the Pass of Terrors (not an official name but one Jaskier is intent on coining).

“What ‘m I gonna do?” The horse merely nickers before resuming to nibble on the sparse vegetation. “Well’s _your_ turn t’ come up wi’ something! I spend half o’ yesterday pretending to’ave the runs...even drank that...that..._bleargh_!” He shudders at the memory of an undoubtedly healthy concoction.

Yes,  the situation is as bleak as  the weather .  Once or twice, Jaskier had believed there was hope – when they sparred for the first time and when Geralt presented the  still rank albeit  magnificent pelt to her – but nothing else happened. It is as though the universe is playing a cruel trick on the bard, preventing what is meant to be from happening  and often tempting him to tell them outright what blind fools they are. 

“Should I do that?”

Roach ignores him, something Jaskier has taken to mean “no”.

### ... Reader ...

You can hear Jaskier playing his lute from the other side of the little ridge, undoubtedly attempting to complete the latest song of the Witcher’s bravery when faced with a monstrous wolf.  _ Bards. _ Little of what you  ha ve heard so far has resembled reality.

“Is he normally like this?” you ask the monosyllabic Geralt.

Amber eyes find flick er across the landscape. “No. More chatty. Always... close by .”

_ Oh. _ A lump which has been tightening in your gut grows larger still as you have to consider that you are the  changing  factor guilty of the change in the bard.  _ But...why? _ Nothing else has hinted at any animosity between the two of you.

“He’s said nothing t’you?”

The question appears to catch Geralt unprepared. His large hands stop working on the silvered sword, resting the grindstone on a knee to allow him to sit silently for a moment, absentmindedly scratching at the bandage hidden beneath his tunic and you are reminded that you cannot postpone at least one task any longer.

“Stop that,” you order him, “lemme have a look instead.”

You allow him a sliver of privacy to put aside the tools and shirt while you find a new roll of bandages and the poultice needed to treat the wound from the wyvern’s  stinger. 

_ F uck. _ It does not seem fair to create a being so perfect in appearance yet so unattainable in heart and mind.  Although you have cared for his wounds many times it is the memory of a sunny day that resurfaces each time you look at him and the knowledge that all the strength he possesses serves to highlight the gentleness of his touch.  _ Don’t stare, girl! _

You k neel be fore him, hesitantly nudging until  wedged between  his knees. H is eyes are boring holes in you as the old dressing is unwound and discarded onto the ground for the time being. The intensity of the gaze heats your cheeks, sends the beating of your heart into a mad dash until you have to bite your lip to prevent your hands from shaking.  Carefully, gently, you wash away the remains of crushed herbs and sticky liquids which now smell of  the  venom they  have  draw n from the wound. Well, calling it  a  wound any longer is an exaggeration as the penetrating mark  is reduced to little more than bee-sting sized welt. Bending closer, you prod carefully to test the tissue, gaining a hiss from Geralt as reward.

“I’m sorry!”

You would have snatched your hand back were it not for the large, calloused palm that holds it in place. Almost reluctant to meet his gaze, it feels as if everything has slowed to a standstill by the time the world is reduced to a  silver-framed face with golden eyes.  His lips (somehow closer than you expect) part slightly to allow his tongue to sweep out and wet them.  _ That tongue. _ Oh, the wonders it can create warms your core even now, long after -

“Do wyverns use campfires?” Jaskier’s voice breaks the spell that has eliminated the distance between Geralt and you. 

P ulling back, neither looks at the other as the bandages are reapplied  in a rush. None of the silent reprimands are enough to convince you that it is a good thing the bard accidentally interrupted a situation you dare not label; instead, you feel as though a wonderful prize had been snatched from right out of your hands.

“I’m not sure other travellers up here are a good thing,” the bard offers his astute insight, earning him a roll of the eyes behind his back. “Who’d travel this way?”

Busy packing the  remaining supplies away, you glance  up at the jagged peaks and spot several smoke columns  spiralling towards the low-hanging clouds. “None. We’re the last bit of civilization ‘fore the mountains and desert beyond.”

“Hm.” Supposedly, that means Geralt agrees.

N o one mentions that some of the rising clues are different from the whitish smoke of cooking fires but polluted with a sickly green or  a shade of purple so inky it borders bla ck. No one mentions it because whatever the cause may be it is undoubtedly nefarious in origin.

“How far to where...where the two of you were injured?”

“Less than two days in good conditions.”

_ Even less if travelling downhill. _ There is an itch at the back of your knees spurring you to move albeit preferably away from whatever host has staked its ground up there.  _ But why these mountains?  _ Not once have there been tales of people crossing the great desert, Korath, as none who have ventured to do so have survived to tell of their exploits –  the Far Lands are only known because it is possible to circumvent the scorching graveyard  via the north.

A s if reading your mind, Geralt w eigh s in. “These ranges are rumoured t’ hold a vast population of wyvern... greater than ‘ ny  other place in the world.”

“Quite a ways to go on a rumour,” the bard objects.

You hold back a scoff. “People’ve done more for less.”

None of the men deny that, choosing instead to resume the travels  with a newfound severity painted on their faces – Jaskier even refrains from humming.


	9. Something good

### ... Geralt ...

If something as fleeting as luck exists then it has smiled at the little group: just before nightfall, they happen across a ravine with a cave at the very top and what at first glance appears to be a narrow, wet hideout opens into a large chamber with a couple of niches  and a stream of fresh water running through the middle. Even Roach accepts being led in after her owner has made sure the premises are vacated.

D inner is cold – the only heat and light is from a slow-burning torch jabbed into a crevice between two rocks – and silent as each is occupied by their own worries. In Geralt’s case, his mind has been filled with half plans which he cannot finish until he knows more about the enemy. He has told  just one  of what he saw before overcome with his injuries.  _ Vampires. Hm.  _ There are many subspecies of the monsters, some less intelligent than others, and too many are unbothered by the rays of the sun  as well as most commonly known repellents  though silver at the very least can wound them. 

“Well, this’s been _wonder_fully cozy but I’m gonna turn in,” Jaskier breaks the silence, standing to stretch before hurrying towards the niche furthest away which he has claimed for himself, “g’night,” he adds over the shoulder.

“Sleep well.”

Of course Geralt cannot help but glance towards [Y/N] as she speaks. There is always a kindness to her voice that softens the features of anyone who listens, even now when she is deeply engrossed in the work at hand. Spread out on a cloth in the flickering torchlight are bundles of semi-dried herbs, a few pouches of powder, and several small vials. Working nimbly with a small blade, she separates leaves from stems before loosening the bark with the longer dagger by rolling and crushing the plants between a flat stone and the flat of the weapon – the torchlight glinting in the metal and her eyes.

“Lemme see that,” the Witcher extends a large hand in a silent command for her to bring him the knife.

There is a fire from within, gleaming dangerously as she looks over. Slowly, deliberately, she finishes the task rather than handing over the weapon right away, and when she finally does she merely holds it out. It is a silent challenge. A waiting game to see who might give in first and cover the distance for the exchange. 

Neither gets up.

Then, with a flick of the wrist, [Y/N] tosses the dagger is a soft curve, hilt first  and e asy to catch.  _ Was that annoyance?  _ Whatever it was, Geralt decides to study the metal rather than comment upon her demeanour. 

“This’s silvered.” He had expected as much after noticing the gleam reflecting off of it.

“Yes. It was my father’s,” she explains, hesitating a fraction before continuing as if to consider whether to reveal something at all, “look at the crossbar.”

Curiosity wins. Leaning forward,  he turns the weapon over and over  for the dancing light to illuminate it until: “Witcher’s seal.”

“Vesemir’s.” The sigh she lets free is one of exhaustion – years of keeping a secret, perhaps. “Vesemir found my parents in Beauclair...helped us get outta there without a trace. The dagger was to serve as a token of truth if they needed his help.” Again, she sighs but this time with a sadness that threatens to break Geralt’s heart. “All father ever used it for was teach me how to fight.”

_ Well... _ _ where to begin unravelling all of that?  _ Practicality wins.  F ew possess the agility and strength of a Witcher, of course, but now it does makes sense why the maiden from a tiny village is able to hold her ground slightly better than others when the two of them spar.  _ Has she held back? _ It would explain how she moved so swiftly when the wolf attacked.

“Show me.” When [Y/N] does not respond, he walks over and places the knife in her hands. “Show. Me. And don’t hold back.”

S he takes her time to pack away the antidotes and other healing remedies, tugging them neatly into a side pocket on the rucksack.  She even takes the time to tie back her hair and roll up the sleeves before turning to Geralt who has been standing patiently, his own dagger still in the belt but eyes upon every movement of hers  to witness the dawning acceptance of something unspoken – a mind made up despite some unexplained concern.

Geralt is prepared when she moves. He is not prepared for the  torch’s  fire flaring out towards him with a ferocity that makes him jump aside. In a flash, [Y/N] is upon him in a whirlwind of attacks he barely has time to parry while recovering.  _ Oh.  _ Now this is an interesting development and not only does the man want to know more, he wants to test the limits.  P ush her.  G et her blood boiling. 

“You’re a mage.” A grin accompanies the flash of his own dagger as he no longer worries about holding back.

“No.”

True or not, she does increase the efforts to outmatch him, turning the sparring into a dizzying dance  where they often are close enough to taste the breath of the other as chests heave and sweat begins to bead on brows and lips.

“I’m not...some...political _pet_,” the woman huffs icily as they lock themselves in a knot of limbs and steel.

He might have her body in a strong grip, but  her cold blade is resting against Geralt’s throat, tip digging slightly into his jowl. Still, there is no fear in his heart because death is not in her fiery eyes. Cockily, he taps his own weapon against her ribs.

“Tied.”

The way her eyebrow arches is a sinful challenge. “Try again.”

_ What...?  _ And there it is, the added pressure of a tiny knife against the uninvited swell of his cock.  Conceding to his loss by sheathing his own weapon, the Witcher is acutely aware of the lingering gaze when [Y/N] reciprocates and he can feel the burn of it when she turn s away to stove the little knife back in its place.  _ Fuck.  _ In two steps he is right behind her when she straightens up, her back against his chest and the ass fitting neatly into the dip and  poke of his crotch. 

If he had expected any objections – or hoped for them as the last effort to keep from succumbing to temptation – every remaining concern is dashed as she leans into his arms and allow the hands to roam.  Soft curves contained under wrapped fabrics and tiny knots are palmed. Fingers dig into the flesh of hips and thighs. [Y/N]’s scent is intoxicating, dizzying as he breathes in deeply at the crook of her neck between the hundreds of kisses and teasing bites which each puncture the silence in the cave with a gasp from her lips. 

S hivers run down the length of Geralt’s spine when she reaches back to tangle a hand in his hair, nails scraping softly against his scalp. It is immediately followed by another as yellowed eyes catch a glimpse of what her free hand does.

“Let me,” the rasp is barely audible yet the woman hears it.

Her irises are almost swallowed by lustful darkness, watching  while she back s towards the last niche  a nd Geralt works quickly to rid her of the tunic before slowing down to take time to savour every moment as, a tiny knot at a time, the last layer is unfastened and releases a bosom he has dreamed of for too long. 

A second of breathlessness.

“Hmm.”

The familiarity of the soft skin against his calloused fingers, the sweet-and-salty taste as his tongue sweeps and circles the hardening nipples. It is bliss, soothing the aching corners of his soul without softening the bone-gnawing hunger.

A single word falls  in a whisper from  [Y/N]’s soft lips. “Please.”

C ooperating hurriedly, it becomes a race to reveal the shape of each other. Bulky muscles against smooth lines outlining curves and expanses. Somehow, in the middle of the almost fevered rush where hands begin to explore, Geralt manages to unfurl a be droll, using the other as a pillow for the magnificent female as he lowers her onto her back  with an extra layer of a pelt for comfort .

L ooking at the beauty bared beneath him, the Witcher momentarily feels transported to the field under the sun when she was revealed to him for the first time. Oh, he has lain with pretty people before, all too often finding that their outer grace is unmatched by their minds and souls. Not [Y/N]. Everything about her was  and is  a reflection of her call as a healer in the village, kindhearted, clever, funny.  _ Untainted.  _ He had hesitated that day, afterwards promising himself not to ruin her by dragging the spirited maiden into his life of monsters and darkness...even if it was excruciating to part.

_ She’s here. _ Slender hands caressing his form, sometimes conjuring goosebumps by the drag of a nail along a sensitive line. Geralt gasps as fingers curl around the strained shaft, using it to drag him closer. Closer. Lips finally  meet and he damn near melts at the sensation of her tongue sweeping across the seam of his mouth to gain access –  which he gladly gives.

### ... Reader ...

Y ou  a re out of breath, dizzy, when Geralt backs out of your reach with a strained moan and dark eyes that wordlessly relay why he pins your wrists to your sides.  He is right there – body brushing against your thighs and strong arms weighing your hips to the  furry  layer beneath you...still he feels further away than ever.

“Geralt...” you plead, trying to keep quiet as to not wake up Jaskier, “please.”

“Always,” is the mumbled answer as he dives between your legs and licks a long stripe upwards to your clit.

You are aware of his chuckle even as you arch your back to breathe in sharply, it just does not matter because the man refuses to relent in his newfound quest to drive you mad with coiled-up lust growing stronger with each lick, each thrust and twist of his fingers when he finally lets go of your wrists. Scrabbling for purchase, his silver locks becomes an anchor and a rudder directing his mouth to where it is needed and you can barely contain a mewling scream as the tension inside snaps and drops you into earth-moving ecstasy. 

“Hmmmm.” Was that a sigh or a groan? In your delirious state, you cannot tell which. “You’re...” Sloppy kisses trail up your sensitive abdomen to breasts that ache for his attention. “[Y/N],” he sighs against your lips as his cock nestles between you drenched folds, “I...you...no one else.”

B oth his words and manhood sinks in slowly, agonizingly perfect in the stretch and depth as though made for you specifically.  _ Always meant for you. _ The words must have slipped out because he stops to cup your cheek, golden eyes burning with an emotion you never have seen within him before.  The kiss is different too, familiarity mingled with a new understanding.

A  slow roll of your hips spurs Geralt on. Resting on an elbow to still cup your cheek, the other hand is freed to roam your body as his thrusts set a slow pacing. You can feel each vein and the fold and head of the cock drag along the ridges in your cunt. Almost frustratingly lazy as he pulls back to the very entrance each time. No. Not “almost”. Arching into him, pulling him deeper with the  hook of your heels against his ass and knees pinching against his torso – all you want is him without any  veil s.  Still, it is impossible to complain as long as he keeps looking into your soul the way he does. Geralt is teasing you, yes, causing your toes to curl with pent up need yet simultaneously providing you with the most intense experience in your life.

A calculative gleam shimmers in the blown pupils.  “ You’re...much stronger than I’ve been thinking...” 

“Don’t hold back...take me.”

T here is barely time to register how the Witcher flips you onto  your knees, hands braced against the rock wall, before regaining entrance to your (due to the position) much tighter cunt with a groan bitten into your shoulder.  His chest is heaving, sweat-slicked against your back as he holds you pinned in place for a second. A large hand finds a breast to toy with. Another hand grips your hip so tight it feels as though there is no flesh between his fingers and the bone, but you are glad for the restraint as the man draws back only to ram into you hard, knocking out your breath  on a keening moan before he has a chance to cover your mouth.

“More?”

You nod frantically against the calloused palm,  eager  for the feel of a second release as the greedy urge already builds in the pit of your stomach.  It grows bigger, warmer with each thrust until breathing is nearly impossible  and ...it is Geralt’s hand, strong and calloused that has slid along your jaw and found your throat to squeeze just enough around your windpipe for you to feel dizzy and heighten each sensation in a rush.  _ Almost. _

Maybe Witchers can read minds. This one certainly seems to as his other hand abandons its purchase, fingers reaching for the nub at the apex of the slick folds. Teasing. Circling. Tweaking. His breath is hot against your throat, fanning your ear as he tells you to come undone for him. Pleads you.

How can you deny that husky voice? It is impossible to stop the explosion that starts in your core, ricocheting with incredible force through your body which contorts until the storm recedes, leaving your blissed-out in your Witcher’s arms, gasping for breath now that air flows freely.

Hair sticks to faces, necks, only stubbornly brushed aside once Geralt has laid you down,  tugging you close.

“My wild flower,” he mumbles against your cheek and you can feel the smile on his lips, “get some rest.”

There will be a lot to talk about, secrets to explain before anything can begin to make sense, but right now...rest sounds good.


	10. It changes Everything

### ... Jaskier ...

As he lies there, the sleep slowly seeping out of his bones until thoughts begin to manifest, it is all the bard can do but enjoy the warmth pressed against his back and he almost feels comfortable. If the ground had not been so hard through the flimsy bedroll then he might even have thought he was lying in a lovely bed next to a sleeping lover. A smile quirks his lips at the thought and he nuzzles closer to the warm body. Something soft brushes against Jaskier’s cheek ever so lightly. _The lips of a lover, silken and lush._ Instinctively, he turns to meet them – chase them and the heat that rolls away with a heavy sigh – before finally enjoying the caress of soft strands of hair.

“Hm! Get that mouth away from Roach, bard,” a voice impossibly far from the melodious tones of a happy lover growls, “get up. Make y’self useful.”

Bleary eyed and filled with an emptiness at the loss of the dream, the bard looks around the cave. Roach is getting up (rump  reluctantly dragged along under strenuous effort) before seeking over to where [Y/N] is unwrapping a few morsels and splitting them into three piles.

“Dandelions are in truth a stock herb for most healers,” she confides to the scorned bard, “and not uncommon in kitchens when the green leaves are fresh and crisp. _I_ use the sap in the poultices because it’s sticky.”

_This’s no proper life._ Admittedly, Jaskier has survived quite a handful of hellish scenarios, but roughing it will never suit his delicate tastes.  _The sacrifice of an artist._

“Sticky.” Geralt scoffs a laugh. “I see the resemblance now. Impossible to get off, always clinging.”

“I recognize what you’re implying, but I will not grant you the satisfaction of reacting to it,” the dandelion in question huffs.

Packing away his own bedroll,  he tries to spy at the sleeping arrangements of his friends and is disheartened to notice that not only have they obliterated any traces of cozy arrangements  they barely speak a word to eachother .  _How blind are they?_ Thankfully, Jaskier has also adopted the trademark tenacity of the sunny weed to overcome averse conditions.  _Before this journey’s over, I’ll’ave shown them they’re meant to be. Soulmates._

### ... Reader ...

You are torn. While your heart is leaping with joy and a smile keeps tugging at the corners of your mouth due to the afterglow of the night...well, the development has also heightened the stakes considerably. However, as Jaskier ambles over with his usual string of morning complaints, what you fear is the possibility that he may have overheard you and Geralt. _Geralt of Rivia._ Now there is a man who knows how to turn your world upside down.

“Here,” you hand over a piece of cloth with salted meat, cheese, and bread to the bard before turning to repeat the gesture towards the larger man.

Waking up, you had prepared yourself for the usual distanced grouch of a Witcher. Instead you  imagine yourself treated with warmth and devotion and it  really does seem to be there in the golden eyes even now as he begins to lay out the fragments of a plan,  making it impossible not to lose track of what he says as long as it is with the burning intensity of his husky voice. The voice that whispered in your ears a handful of hours ago.

“What?!” Jaskier’s incredulous shout breaks the reverie before it can really begin yet you must have missed something. 

Geralt sighs. “Y’heard me. We’ve got an advantage they don’t expect, though.”

“What? An upper hand against something that heals even if you decapitate them, stake them, _bury_ them?” You cannot blame the bard for the horror in his voice as the same fear has kept you awake more than once since Geralt had confided his concern to you. “Silver can hurt them, sure,” Jaskier continues, “but what are you gonna do? Chop them all to pieces and feed them to the wyverns if _they_ haven’t done you in at that point already?”

“The wyverns...they’re gonna be an issue for later but at lea-”

“An issue for _later_?”

You manage to shush the bard, wanting to hear what is on the Witcher’s mind.

“Fire.” It is a short answer prompting clarification. “Burn a vampire until nothing but ashes is left.” 

Golden eyes are locked on you, telling more than words can.  You feel the shiver of fear travelling along your spine, born from an ingrained lesson burned into you long before the three guidelines –  be kind to others, work hard, keep out of trouble –  became a part of your parents’ lessons.  W hat Geralt is  imply ing counters the very reason  for your family to leave Beauclair with the help of Vesemir.

“We dunno how many vamps are there...dunno what kind.” The Witcher’s calm cannot soothe your frazzled mind for once. “My hope’s to pick’em off one by one if’t’s sensible to attack at all...use their own fires as pyres.”

F inally, you find the nerve to speak up in protest although your voice quakes. “Unless they’re  _highly_ flammable, a simple cooking fire won’t do any good and y’ _know_ that.”

Silently begging him to stay silent, an inner voice berates you for refraining from taking up the subject from the night and making him promise to keep the secret. It would have been the wise thing to do – almost as wise as never revealing the truth at all. _I’m an idiot._ Your chest is constricting already, making the air feel like needles in your lungs.

Geralt of Rivia is trustworthy, you would lay your life in his hands (and have) a nd  never fear any harm.   
Jaskier the Dandelion, kind and sweet  and only harbouring devotion in his big heart...that is a different matter  simply because he does not stop gushing over people he adores and their prowess.  He would never intentionally hurt those he care for.  _Intentionally._

The silver-haired man keeps his gaze steady upon you, not answering the many questions of the bard as he allows you the time to consider the options and weigh the risks. Squirming slightly in the seat, you finally meet his eyes and you instantly know: he will never let the truth hurt you no matter who finds out.

“Fine,” you sigh, “here’s the thing...”


	11. Between you and me

### ... Years ago, in Beauclair ...

As the right hand of the vassal, the young seigneur and his lady lacked nothing. Enjoying the easy life at the vassal’s court in Beauclair kept them away from the intrigues (including the harm thereof) while still granting influence and luxury. As such, it seemed their happiness was guaranteed when the lady became with child.

Though the laws required the monarch of Nilfheim to be of the male sex, there were no such restrictions for the heirs of the lesser lords, meaning that the birth of a healthy girl was as much cause for celebration as a boy would have been. Yes, the seigneur and his wife were truly blessed by the Prophet.

Or so it seemed.

As the little girl grew, so did the numbers of strange incidents in the household. Lamps flickered and flared, the hearths would roar as by a sudden gust of wind. For a while, the parents would amuse themselves by imagining the flames danced according to their precious daughter’s mood...but the laughter was lessened when a servant got severely burned after angering the child and later there were no smiles left as a wave of her hand caused the fire to leap towards a guest.

Money and favours owed bought the silence of the witnesses, but everyone knew it would only be a matter of time: the sorceresses of Aretuza would come for the child if she survived past the first ten years – a prospect that scared the parents. The mother was distraught, remembering the loss of a childhood friend who was taken to train with magic yet never seen again; the father became grim and silent, growing more secluded as time passed. Neither, however, stopped loving the girl or were willing to give up on her.

When the child was six years of age, a Witcher happened to visit the court of Beauclair and though his quest was another, he agreed to listen to the seigneur after promising not to tell a soul. Curious, he went to see the child. Vesemir, the Witcher, witnessed how the girl played with the flames effortlessly.

“Yes,” he confided to the parents, “Aretuza will come for the girl...but not to train her. To kill her.” He explained of the balance of nature and how the use of magic had a cost to maintain that order. “[Y/N] does not appear to pay the due. Magic without a price’s unthinkable and the very existence’s the greatest threat to the world of the sorceresses and mages.”

“But what can we do?”

Vesemir took pity on the little family, quietly thinking to himself that he had been going soft ever since he took in his charge. Working ardently, the Witcher found a way to cloak the girl, obscure the mark of magic with a sign from those who would seek it, before helping the family leave the city under disguise.

### ... Present day, Reader ...

“You saw him again?”

A short nod. “Yeah. He...visited the summer after they passed.” Pointing to the knife, you add: “Wanted t’make sure I knew ‘bout that.”

It is tangible, the path of Geralt’s gaze as it reevaluates everything he has learned about your body to remember seeing a mark. You lift and part your hair after turning the back to him  because there, at the base of the skull, is a finely lined symbol. You do not recall ever seeing it with your own eyes though the memory of getting it done is clear.

“Hm.” The Witcher sounds surprised. “Here I thought he only cared ‘bout swords.”

J askier has also been leaning in to get a good look at the small tattoo, clearly less impressed despite undoubtedly having understood the implications. “ I once new this fellow who  _OUCH_ !”

The scowl you send the silver-haired man is only enough to make him shrug. Clearly, remorse is still not one of his traits – at least not when it comes to slapping the bard in the back of the head.  _Witchers. _ He is the second one you have met  and while he is the only you have gotten to know this well, it seems there may be a pattern in their personalities: few of words, practical, confident.  _Consuming. Passionate._ The memories of both night and day mingle, interchanging what the bright sun had shown you with the shadows of the past night. Still a bit sore, your core reawakens, stirred by echoes from the lovemaking Geralt had worshipped you by. 

“Fire...” you sigh, “I can’t create it out of nothing.”

“No one can do anything unless they’ve been taught,” he challenges with an arched brow.

Of course, you take the bait. Maybe to ensure some things remain unchanged? “S’pose  _you’re_ gonna teach me, huh?”

“Hmm.” His smile broadens to reveal teeth and his eyes gleam like gold in the sun. “I’ll teach you a lot more...but not that.”

Shy a response, you are saved by Jaskier finally losing his patience and demanding to know  the relevance and  how any attempt s to kill the vampires  are going  to result in  anything but certain death...especially if the wyverns have indeed been domesticated.  Truth be told, the bard is being reasonable.  _We only need evidence_ , a desperate thought shouts in your mind,  _enough to convince the villagers to flee and the vassal to send the soldiers._

Beauclair is hundreds of miles from the last village at the foot of the mountains and the vassal and his court will be safe for a long time while the rest of Toussaint suffers – it has always been that way whether through harsh winters or violent attacks. Those with power do not lower themselves to bother with the problems of the common folk. Your parents had always known this and tried to help in what ways they could without catching the suspicions of their fellows in the court because Toussaint, well, all of Nilfheim, follows a simple rule: kill or be killed. If someone shows signs of weakness, they are certain to be ousted. _If lucky._ No, the only reason for any ruler, local or not, to lift a finger would be if they were the targets.

“Domesticated wyverns...” you ponder, unknowingly out loud, “domest-...dom-...vampires are intelligent?”

Under your fixed stare, Geralt nods. “Some.”

“Then maybe...no...” _Intelligent or not, the__y’__re still monsters._

“What? What is it?” There is desperation in Jaskier’s voice. “Any idea’s gotta be better than hack ‘n slash.”

Suddenly, your throat is dry and the hem of the tunic is fascinating, captivating your attention and preventing a good argument from rolling off your tongue. “Well...if they’re smart enough to get t’gether and tame the wyvers...they’ve got some sorta plan. Right?  W ould they be willing to listen to logic?” A dark eyebrow rises, underlining the contrast against the silvered hair of the owner. “I mean...can they be...argued with or-or swayed to...y’know...”

Stammering and hesitant, you explain a fool’s hope of convin c ing the enemy to head directly for the king and his many advisors and admirals rather than preying on the innocents. 

“Your idea was to walk up there, waltz into their midst and beg them not to kill the common folk?”

“Well...yeah?”


	12. Nightmares in Daytime

### ... Geralt ...

“Hm,” the Witcher tells his horse, conveying all the annoyance saturating his cells, “y’need to keep an eye on them, Roach.”

The animal in question bumps him gently with the head as if to show that she accepts the responsibility and understands her owners concern. Jaskier has been a fixed part of half of the horse’s life, and more often than not the lad gets himself into some sort of silly situation – though the risk of that is greater in the cities. But now? _There are two._ This is not to say that [Y/N] is cut from the same cloth as the bard, merely that she too lacks a certain understanding of the world and its darkness.

“Sweet talk vampires, pfft.”

“I _heard_ that!”

At least no sound is created by rolling the eyes.  _Hmm._ The seething tension burning into his back is easily ignored, Geralt’s attention focused on the surroundings as much as the narrow  trail created by animals  leading upwards. 

Rising smoke marks their destination. Black. White. Purple. Each taint indicates a variety of nefarious purposes more than simple cooking fires or for heat or light – even a torch, when ignited properly, has  a particular smoke.  The smoke for a hot torch is thin and black, rising in silky tendrils to the cave ceiling above where it billowed briefly before dissipating along invisible divots and cracks, leaving a growing layer of soot behind. Their movements had disrupted the momentary remnants of the flame after it had flared as greedily as his own lust. Like a fire, the feverish desire had spurred him on as he found [Y/N] willing, responding perfectly to his every  ministration with a simultaneously strong but pliant body. And afterwards...afterwards he had felt her fall asleep, listened to her breathing calm while she was tugged against him safely. An image of a wild flower nestled in a sunny spot by a shielding rock had flashed through his mind – perhaps, he thought for a moment, even someone as hard as him can belong with someone.

He had wanted to ask her in the morning, but he dallied for too long as he lay there inhaling her scent. The quiet moment had come and gone. Not a word was exchanged although it was on the tip of his tongue. More than once, he had thought that [Y/N] was about to say something, her movements halting and mouth opening slightly only to be closed with a sigh. Every minute brought the events of the night further away, making it harder to believe that it could all have been more than a moment of weakness if it indeed had happened at all. A slip where she had given in to the urges of the flesh after the physicality of the sparring.

A sound breaks the Witcher’s brooding: “Are we there yet?” Jaskier calls out softly – not out of boredom but worry.

_A few hours._ “Hm.”

“Hold on then,” the strong-willed woman halts them all, “let’s go over it while there’s time, Geralt.” He does not like the sarcasm in her voice but turns anyways to see her scurry past Roach’s hind. “Tell us, oh Witcher, what your plan is if it isn’t to avoid the people of Toussaint be slaughtered?”

Only Roach seems to react to the low growl coming from the Witcher’s chest, her ears flattening and eyes darting every witch way to find the possible threat. He notices. Stopping the sound, he softly pats the mare’s neck to soothe her, but his gaze is locked in a silent battle with [Y/N].

“When I agreed to let you come along, it wasn’t to have you question everything I say or do,” Geralt bites at her.

“You didn’t _let_ me come along, and you know it.” Shorter than him, the woman stares unwavering up into his face. “Besides..._someone_’s gotta make sure you don’t just create a fight and get yourself hurt. _Again._”

There is a small sound coming from Jaskier, a little chuckle perhaps that he swallows right as it is about to tip over the lip. _Hmm._

The silver-haired fighter has always prided himself of fighting smart by using the environment to his advantage and gathering all the information needed before confronting the enemy whenever possible. The incident with the wyvern attack that eventually brought them to the threshold of [Y/N]’s home once more is not a typical example of how his work is done. _I’m glad though._ Unwilling to share that particular piece of information at this moment, Geralt bites the inside of his cheek.

“I wouldn’t...there’s _always_ a plan!” Geralt sighs, brows pinched. “There’ll be no rushing in or needless fights, and _no_, I’m going to keep at a safe distance from the wyverns if possible...this time I know they’re there.”

### ... Reader ...

_Of course,_ you sigh inwardly as the shadows condense before you,  _of course this happens when Geralt is off scouting ahead._

W hatever you had imagined of a vampire, this was not exactly it. Monsters are supposed to be less like humans and more like creatures wrought from pure evil even if there are plenty examples of monstrous people in the history books. This bloodsucker? He would fit right in at  the Toussaint court. Perfectly tailored clothes in deep red silk and velvet contrasted by silvered embellishments that strike an echo in his otherwise dark eyes, yes, even his blond hair helps distract from the sallow greyness of the skin.  Momentarily, fear is an unknown factor to you as your mind wavers under the spell of his gaze.

“Oh, hello there m-” Jaskier’s greeting somewhere behind you is interrupted a heartbeat before you hear his body hit the ground.

T he vampire before you says something in a  grating,  foreign language, receiving an answer – no, two – that makes a smirk grow enough to reveal a fang.  _Oh. Not good._ A swarm of self-chastising thoughts barrage your brains, battling with the urge to either run or fight the disdainful figure in front of you. Fear might have been slow at presenting itself but now it fills your guts with icy lead in a rush capable of knocking the feet out from under anyone.  _I gotta get away!_

“Please, pretty lady, _let_ me chase you.” 

You understand t w o things then. One is that the vampire’s voice by nature sounds like flint sliding against flint, the other knowledge – which intangibly more dreadful – is that there is nowhere you can flee before he inevitably  catches you. Whatever he may have planned now will surely worsen if you try. 

_Jask? I can’t leave him anyways._ Spinning around, you try to find the bard but gentleman monster wraps his cold fingers around your throat. Struggling is futile, the controlled grasp presses expertly against veins and windpipe, making the world spin and blur  into darkness.  The last thing visible is someone picking up The bard’s lifeless body .


	13. Reconstrucdead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, didn't have the time nor the mood to edit/spellcheck due to working hard shifts.

### ... Jaskier ...

_Whyyyy does my head hurt more than after the wedding of Lady Demavend? _ Careful not to move, the bard considers if the pain would increase by opening the eyes. Then he muses (still with eyes closed) over the reasoning behind the throbbing ache at the side of his skull –  there is something thoroughly non-hangoverish about it.  _What’s the last I can remember?_ A moment later he tries to forget it is a memory, the figure unfurling from the darkness and straightening up to reveal skeletal limbs and a deformed face with thin, sharp fangs.  _Let it be a dream. It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream...it IS a dream because a real vampire would have killed me rather than tugged me between blankets like a swathed child._ The realization confuses Jaskier enough to open his eyes.

The wall he is nestled against in the cave where he finds himself is painted with peach and rose from the sun, warm hues that are not reflected in the temperature of the rays before the sun sinks beneath the layer of clouds and out of sight. The rest of the place is cast in cold shadows, only here and there broken by a bright flame or, further away where a jagged rift runs along the cavern, plumes of coloured smoke illuminated from below and surrounded by stark silhouettes in constant motion.

T rying to sit up, Jaskier’s motions are hampered by tight ropes but not enough to prevent him from looking for his friend.  _[Y/N]. May the Maiden keep you safe until Geralt finds us._

  
  


###  ... Geralt ...

O ddly, Roach is standing by herself, ears flat and flanks shivering despite nosing through the few items scattered where the others should be until she hears the Witcher approach. 

“Fuck.” Nothing else needs saying nor would it feel quite as satisfying.

Allowing the horse to nuzzle into his chest brings a certain calm to the chaos in the heart. Geralt knows what he must do. _I’ve done it a thousand times. _Somehow, it feels different. More...frightening.

“You know I’ve gotta go...leave you here, hmm?” The soft sound Roach responds with might or might not only be due to the scratches she is receiving between the ears. “Need to go _save_ the day, kill some monsters. As usual.” Golden eyes do not see the world around him anymore but are tracing the lines of a figure in his memories. “As usual.” _Then why does it feel nothing like before?_

...

There are plenty of traces to follow. A drag of a heel through the dirt of the path. A downtrodden thicket that has managed to survive the heights until this day. A snatch of fabric with an intoxicatingly familiar scent. A blue, carved button.

Despite the cold of the air now that the sun is setting, Geralt sweats under his armour as he follows the invisible trail upwards. The pace is steady though rapid, ensuring a certain level of stealth because he can school his breathing  and find sure footing for the large boots.  Among his own weapons, sheathed against his back and in the belt, is the dagger belonging to [Y/N] which he had found on the ground with a few  strand of hairs on the blade – not  a colour belonging to either of his companions . 

_They’re alive._ Every trace points to this conclusion, a knowledge resonating in his soul. _Alive. Waiting._

A scratching sound alerts him of a presence on the other side of a nearby crest, and Geralt slides out the sword from the scabbard in a smooth whisper of steel and leather. _Waiting time’s over for some._

  
  


### ... Jaskier ...

“...but they haven’t eaten us.”

“Vampires don’t _eat_ people...they just drink the blood.”

“Charming,” Jaskier persists, “they haven’t done that either.”

[Y/N]’s sigh is barely audible. “No, we’re worth more alive now they know a Witcher’s coming.”

The grating chuckle coming from one of the creatures in question proves the woman right.  _ How can she be so calm before that...gorgeous monster? _ It has taken a while for the bard to accept that vampires are not restricted to the gangly, animalistic creatures kept further back in the cave  but also include the rather dazzling male standing ramrod-straight in front of the captives.

Alright, maybe not captive in the classical sense as neither of them are restrained anymore. As a matter of fact: Jaskier has been provided with an exquisite lute and asked to play whatever he feels like for the other noble-looking fang-owners. [Y/N]? She has refused everything offered so far.

“Your...companion is quite right,” the flint-voiced vampire admits, “we know the true value of life and death. That is why we don’t kill indiscriminately, despite what horrific tales are told among humans.”

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier winces at the sarcasm dripping from the woman’s reply. “Vampires are simply misunderstood.” She glances icily towards the dark recesses where glowing eyes are the only sign of the less sophisticated of the species.

A smile still remains on the vampire’s lips, now stretched thin in an attempt to still appear benevolent. “They’re what you may call...lesser. A cousin-breed with whom we acquaint ourselves merely due to their practical use as...well, as slaves.”

“Very cultivated indeed.”

Jaskier’s hands are gripping the instrument increasingly tighter as he follows the conversation. “[Y/N]! Mayb-maybe _ not _ piss off  the  neatly dressed leech?” O ne of her eyebrows arches and suddenly it makes sense why Geralt shuts up when met by that. “ Pardon .”

“All is forgiven, young bard,” the leech in mention offers grandiosely, “I do prefer my drinks lively. However...I appreciate if it would call me by my name. Leif Nordbergar.”

As he turns the his attention to his bloodsucking comrades sitting around the fire, Jaskier catches the eye of his co-prisoner and wiggles his eyebrows at the flickering fire. Much to his dismay, he is answered by a subtle shake of the head. _Why not?_ Any more attempts at communication could prove fatal, and only the plead from a ravishing young-looking, fanged woman to play a song distract him from falling into sombre misery. 

  
  


###  ... Geralt ...

It is astounding – or rather a sign of presumptuous arrogance – how few guards have been placed around the place. Several seem to be positioned at the far end of the gulch below from where the wyverns’ clamour rises, and the Witcher already reckons that they are of the same kind as the few straggling patrols he has encountered made up of an odd mix of Bruxae and Nosferats. _Strange, _the label is not often used by someone like him, _they seem...enthralled._ Their races are intelligent, capable of tactical fighting as well as disguising themselves to blend in in a community (thus creating a favourable hunting ground if they manage to show restraint). The ones that have met their – temporary – demise at Geralt’s sword showed no signs of brain activity other than the most basic.

Creeping onward, following the scent of tainted smoke, he slowly emerges through the cloud that have wrapped themselves around the mountain’s girth. Up here, the view to the waking stars is clear now and would undoubtedly hold a beauty worth admiring if only The White Wolf had the time.

“-ease! ...singi- ...” The words are broken by distance and obstacles, but the voice is easily recognizable due to the shrill tone Jaskier sports in stressed moment.

Never has such an annoying sound been so welcome, making Geralt smile as he slips into the shadows leading to the cave mouth the voice came from. Slowly. Carefully. Vampires have perfect senses and even the disturbingly lessened have shown no signs of exceptions to the rule – one wrong move, and the Witcher will not be able to orient himself enough to come up with a plan.

He leans against the cool stone, allowing the temperature to seep through the leather armour and into the tense muscles of his back. Breathing silently, the pressure against the natural wall grows and wanes. _One._ A calm seems to enter him along with the chill. _Two. _It spreads into strong limbs and hand that holds the silvered sword ready behind him _Three!_

A second is all it takes for yellow eyes to scan the scene around the fire – to see how closely noble-looking Higher Vampires are lounging around Jaskier whom they proffer a glass filled with a ruby liquid; and [Y/N], sitting poised with the hand of what must be the leader of the bloodsuckers resting on her bared shoulder.

After that second, Geralt finds himself short of air as hatred bubbles like bile in his guts.


	14. Strong where you belong

... Reader ...

Subtly shaking the clammy hand on your shoulder off has not worked, and you are too afraid to do something more drastic. Not yet, at least. Jaskier and you are going to get one chance only and it has to be timed perfectly. So you sit.

Biding your time by watching Jaskier play (and sweat bullets) for the little entourage of horny vampires crowding around him; only the leader, Nordbergar, seems to be more interested in you although he remains silent, quietly stroking you with a thumb that sometimes brushes as far as the neck, sending shivers down the spine. Once or twice, your captor leans forward to inhale your scent, reminding both you and Jaskier (eyes bulging with fear as he watches) that these "civilized" people are in fact predators.

Still you sit. Watching the flames dance to an unheard melody that echoes in your bones, the warm hues reflecting in the glasses of wine, echoing as a shimmer in the silks and fancy jewellery.

Long ago, the fire had danced just as prettily before the eyes of a baby girl, making her giggle and fuelling the rhythm until sparks jumped towards the heaven far above the chimney – not that the child knew that part, she just knew the fire was her friend. And so she grew up, finding comfort and entertainment in an element barely controllable.

Now, just like then, you find peace of mind as the heat saturates your skin, almost drifting away with the floating embers until you feel the hand on your shoulder still, nails sharp as talons digging into the joint.  _ Here we go. _ Every vampire s ' head whips towards the  cave mouth , Jaskier's too and the smile that erupts on his face is one of relief and pure joy.

"Witcher," Leif  Nordbergar grates, "we've been expecting you."

"Hm."

_ It's his answer to everything.  _ This time, it barely sounds human and it makes you look over to see Geralt's eyes black like ink, the thin skin around them similarly darkened while the rest looks ashen. Dead.  Regardless of the fearsome  appearance , the man standing with the night sky behind him is not one of the monster s he is famed for killing, this is the man you have been waiting for.

Trying not to smirk, you get his attention easily. "What took you so long? You kept us waiting."

Geralt grins in much the same way as a predator stalking its cornered prey would.  _ But you're here now. _

  
  


... Jaskier ...

The bard realizes that his skill as a wordsmith will be put to the test  (presuming they survive)  when a great river of fire reaches out and flushes the vampires around him aside with the power and their instinctive reactions combined while he himself sits unscathed, although cowering behind the lute with what remains of his wine. Too afraid to move, Jaskier watches as  the vampire in charge changes his grasp on [Y/N], nails turning into claws that seem made for ripping through flesh. 

“Fools!” he snarls through needle-like fangs.

The bard silently agrees. How can this end happily for all three of them? The panic beats like a storm in his chest and ears, it transforms his limbs to stone making him unable to move at all even as the singed vampires begin to find their footing and circle  towards the new threat.

And Geralt? He stands motionless, watching with blackened eyes as he is surrounded. His voice calls out from far away to Nordbergar. “ You can leave. Go back north.” An offer refused with a mocking laugh. “Hm. Your funeral.”

Silver gleams as it arches through the air and into [Y/N]’s hand. Metal blades reflect the rush of fire leaping from the pit  to distort the Witcher’s shape with shadows as he twists and turns in a violent dance with his sword as a partner, driving the foe aside with the aid of flames. One falls, head rolling towards the cave entrance. Another vampire is pierced through the heart seconds before the figure becomes obscured by a local inferno.

“NOO-” Nordbergar’s objection morphs into a scream of frustration and agony as a smaller silvered weapon impales his wrist, twisting in the dry wound to force the hand away from [Y/N]’s throat. 

The scream fades  as another blade comes to rest at his neck. No one moves (with the exception of a vampire reaching for her arm which lies a few feet away). All eyes are on the two males facing each other in a tense seize-fire.

“Hmm.”

“Without a leader, the lesser will slaughter unchecked.”

The Witcher does not flinch at the warning. “ So  you wan na be spared now.”

“Spare my children if you can’t let me live.”

The children in question glance at each other (even the one who now has reached her arm) but say nothing. Jaskier cannot see any fear or remorse in their eyes, only calculative coldness as if they are assessing who is worth surviving.  _ Would the offer each other up? _

“ S’pose you’ve been giving the orders so far...” Geralt sighs, “which means I’ve no guarantee the rest will listen to your offspring.”  Pulling the sword slightly away,  t he dark grin tugs his lips until his own teeth are revealed. “No. This is what you’ll do.”


	15. Soft Dogs

### ... Jaskier ...

_If teeth had been gold coins, the Witcher be rich  
A monster less monstrous, it whines like a -_

_No I can’t use that!_ Annoyed with the lack of progress, Jaskier lazily swirls the wine. Having no problem letting the other two deal with the messy part of things, the bard has decided to spend the waiting time composing a song of the ultimatum Geralt has given the vampire.  _The Bloody Barter...oh, that’s a niiice title._

Half of the Higher Vampires fell as they had decide among each other which of them got to live – it turns out that such decisions are quickly made by ripping the weaker individuals’ hearts out. Now, a musty smell of burning flesh and rot is lifting to the night sky together with the embers and smoke thanks (again) to the stronger vampires’ hard work. It took little time for them to create a pyre  d ue to the adequate amount of slaves blindly following command. And those bloodsuckers? All are lying in a heap, waiting for their turn to impersonate a roast dropped in the cooking fire.

“Would it have been too much to ask that they smelled more appealing?” Jaskier sighs.

“Hm.”

At least [Y/N] eyes him wearily. “Would it be too much to ask that you help?”

She’s standing by Leif Nordbergar.  His own faith is sealed too: like the last few vampires he will have his teeth pulled and hands cut off.  But for now, he has remained c alm and collected, enforc ing the orders upon his kin, never wavering under the feather light touch of the woman’s silvered blade as his children have died and his plan gone up in smoke. 

No longer.

With a ferocious snarl, he bashes her arm aside, sending the weapon clattering towards the fire where Geralt is tossing the remains into the flames, and latching on to a portion of bared flesh at the crook of her neck.

Before Jaskier can fully register what is happening, a familiar sword skewers Nordbergar’s face with a sickening sound, causing both monster and woman to fall  and the other bloodsuckers to flee.

“[Y/N]!”

The bard can’t see the anything but the broad back of Geralt as he comes to a skidding halt on the ground by the fallen, unceremoniously shoving the vampire aside and ignoring the pained moan from the creature...but he can hear the break in the voice, a panic he had never expected to witness coming from the stoic hero.

“C’mon, my flower...” Each word is pulled from the bottom of the Witcher’s heart, filled with ache and longing as though he fears for a loved one’s life.

_Wait._ “Ger...what’s...is she...?” Jaskier crawls across the dirt of the cave floor, afraid his legs won’t carry or that he should fall if the fear growing inside him is validated. “She isn’t...”

Rounding the hunched figure, nothing looks real anymore. Not the blood seeping between the fighter’s fingers as he clasps them to [Y/N] neck, not the already ashen skin, not the tears obscuring the yellow eyes. _This isn’t happening! They were meant to...and then...the romance! Damnit!_ There were so many times Jaskier could have said something, made them realize what they were feeling for each other except now..._Too late._

“Jask, give me the square vial in my satchel.”

How can a young land deny such a request, meaningless though it may be, when spoken with a voice thick with desperation? He can’t. Scampering in a frenzy, the bard does as ordered and watches in reluctance as the Witcher pulls the stopper and pours a thick white liquid into the woman’s mouth. The scene conjures a ridiculous image in his mind.

“It would take a kiss. In all great ta-”

And there it is: the bard has been stunned into silence as Geralt’s lips softly seals [Y/N]’s mouth, tears still dripping onto her cheeks where the last glow lingers – perhaps out of stubbornness to celebrate how she was in life.

### ... Reader ...

Dazed and confused, your entire world consists of the sensory inputs. Numbness in your limbs. A flaring pain in your neck and chest. A foul, sticky taste in your mouth. But most of all, what you feel are the warmth enveloping you and the gentle begging of lips upon yours.

“Geralt,” you mumble in between returning the kisses.

“Wild flower.”

The taste of his smile is soothing. Reassuring. Curling up slightly to get comfortable in his arms, you are ready to fall asleep then and there knowing that he’ll keep you safe. Someone interrupts the calm, though.

“Wait, WHAT?” You know without looking that Jaskier must be flailing his arms. “That’s IT?! Where’s the moment of clarity? The serendipity?! Are you real- oh!” He must have realized something. “Oh, I see! And how long has this been going on? When did you decide _‘Let’s not tell Jaskier, let’s make him look like a fool.’_ Haha! Well joke’s on _you_! I’ve known from the beginning that...that...oh fuck it.”

Disgruntled, he returns to his seat only to have faith mock him as it turns out the wine has been spilled.

You don’t care. At least not right now.

“You’re a mess, wild flower.”

“Guess you get to clean me up when we get a chance then.”

You can feel the soft of him humming in agreement when he kisses you again, though the sound is drowned by Jaskier,

“Oh, come ON!”

### ... Geralt ...

The trio is tired as they start their descent. Jaskier is still moping about the surprising turn of events but at least he does so quietly for the fear of the wyverns abandoning the hunt on the few vampires that fled – apparently the creatures hold a grudge. Similarly, the Witcher is on edge, his eyes darting to the shadows that are beginning to lose their hold in the greying dawn.  His sword is drawn as a necessary precaution as much as for the sake of [Y/N] whom he carries on his back. She is too weak to walk still, caught somewhere between unconsciousness and sleep save for the few times the jostling movement stirs her and she releases a puff of hot breath against Geralt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine.

The sound of birds have accompanied them for a while when they reach the remains of the temporary camp where Roach greets them with a soft, worried whinny muzzling at them all in turn though paying special attention to the prone woman.

“She’s fine,” Geralt mutters, silently appreciating the horse’s gentleness.

“Yeah. Well. I’m still in shock.” The bard might complain, but his genuine concern returns straight away. “Is she...how long will she be like...that?”

_ Who knows. _ “The potion draws upon her own energy to  rekindle her life. It’s taxing on the body.”

...

The sun is setting on the other side of the valley which is stretched out below like a sea of greens and golds, inviting and enticing with the promise of gentle travels and warmer winds. Still, they have made decent headway, distancing themselves from the threat of vampires and wyverns alike to the point that Geralt decides to make camp not far from a stream running past the first decent thicket.

It does not take a lot of convincing from Jaskier before the Witcher half assists, half carries the unnaturally weak woman towards the waters and once there (hidden from the bard’s eyes and ears),  he seats her with the back against a large rock heated by the sun. Stripping, methodically pealing off the black armour, he places everything within reach on the bank before turning to [Y/N].

“Hmm.”

She stirs, understanding what is going on, as he frees her off the bloodied clothes but accepts when he gently swats her hands away that her attempt to help largely is a hindrance. Leaning against him, the large man feels the softness of her curves and the slowly returning strength in the arms that embrace him.

“This is...aaall backwards.” Despite the resignation in the voice, she still smiles.

“Hmm?”

A bit of deviousness bubbles to the surface, ghosting over Geralt’s skin together with her lips when she leans in to whisper. “I’m normally the one saving you.”

Turning  to capture her lips, he lets the final piece of garment drop to the ground in favour of picking her up.  _ So...giving. _ Neither for the first nor the last time does the Witcher envy Jaskier’s skill with words. The resentment at his own lack of skills is willingly swept away by the frigid water which he backs them into because the gasps escaping [Y/N] brings other things to mind, generously aided by the stiffening of her body which she presses against him in the hope of borrowing his heat – a heat that swells and grows as his hands start sweeping off the filth.

“Fuck me sideways, it’s cold!”

He quirks a brow at the exclamation, catching the glimpse of realization on her features. “Don’t worry, wild flower. I’ll make sure you don’t freeze for long.”

Continuing the ministration, Geralt makes sure no inch of skin is left unclean, fingers adeptly rubbing and stroking until the gasps due to the cold turn to soft moans of pleasure, stolen out of the evening air by his mouth.  Still, afraid the low temperatures might get to her he begins to walk back to the shore, only stumbling once when she repositions in his arms and manages to sheath the head of his cock into her burning heat. 

Falling to his knees, how can he not worship the woman on his lap? Slick with water droplets like precious stones scattered across her skin, she fits effortlessly around him, pliable beneath his hands as she allows him to control the pace by lifting and lowering her with a strong grip on her ass. [ Y/N]’s breasts are within reach, nipples perked and begging for the attention of a tongue as she arches from the first spark of euphoria.

_Don’t hold back. Never hold back._

“Lo-ove you, Gera-a-alt.”

_ Let me take care of you. _ “ And  I...I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your time. I hope you liked what I've given.


End file.
